


Seven, thirteen, fifteen.

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Bi!trixie, Closeted Character, F/F, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: A little pre-canon fic of our girls figuring themselves out.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Seven, thirteen, fifteen.

Patience Mount is seven when she first realises she's different. 

Her mother's dressing table was constantly strewn with fashion magazines, mostly American, full to the brim with the latest trends. But the thing that intrigued Patsy was the women wearing the clothes. She found them pretty, but so did her sister Elisabeth. It was a different kind of pretty to Patsy. The pretty that gave her butterflies, that made her cheeks redden slightly and burn hot. She pored over women in satin and frills for hours, her parents and sister assuming she was going to grow up to be a fashion designer or that she was simply a girl interested in pretty dresses and red lipstick. Maybe they were right about one thing.

Trixie is thirteen.

Home was turbulent. Only useful for her curls and dimples, she often spent her days miserable, in search of validation and a warm touch. She was a teenager now and thus had more freedom. She yearned to hold hands with her friends, play with their hair and whisper secrets, after all these were the girls she spent her days with, but deep inside her, she wondered if she wanted the connection for the same reason the rest of them did. Hours spent on the wall at the side of the park, smoking and laughing. A game of truth or dare after dark told Trixie everything she would ever need to know about girls and her connection to them. One kiss full of cigarette smoke and giggles opened the door for Trixie, throwing away the key and snapping the lock.

Delia is fifteen.

It took her a bit longer to realise, with being a sheltered little farm girl. She had a little inkling, of course she did. Aunt Mavis talked so much, on and on about Delia finding a good strong farm boy to take care of her. Delia didn't want a big strong farm boy. Delia wanted the soft blonde girl who sat next to her in Maths. She smelt of strawberries and spring and Delia got butterflies when she saw her. She knew what she wanted. It was a new possibility, but an exciting one. Boys never gave her the same dizzy feeling as the pretty girls at school did. So that night, over dinner, she asked.

"Mam, can you marry girls?"  
"No, cariad. You can't."

And that was that.


End file.
